The bridge groaned. Clarence Mabry stood near knee-deep in runoff, staring at the buckled seam where the Burnside Bridge met the Northside Overpass. His boots were old. City-issue, cracked leather, duct tape curled at the toe. The rain hadn’t stopped in four days. The Marrow swelled brown and fast, surging against the pilings. Clarence rubbed his jaw. Fifty-two years old. His third flood. But not like this. Not with the seams bowing upward and the new concrete already webbed with hairline cracks. He keyed his radio. “Public works north—Burnside’s showing lift. You copy?” Nothing.
A girl came into view, pushing a stroller, soaked to her wasit. Maybe nineteen. One of the Clay girls—a second or third cousin. The stroller was splashing like a boat going too fast. She was looking up at the sky. Clarence stepped into the road. “Hey!” he shouted. “You don’t want this way!” She paused but didn’t stop. The baby wailed, flailing at the rain. Clarence jogged toward her, boots slapping water. “Miss, the bridge ain’t right.”
A shudder, like the whole bridge moved. He grabbed her arm, steady but urgent. “You from Marrow, right?” She seemed confused, “Yeah?” “Then you’re going home. Now.” The bridge vibrated. Clarence tightened his grip. “Let’s move! Let’s go, dammit, go!” Behind them, a deep crack rang out. The girl tried to turn. He had her by the shoulder, the stroller too, dragging both toward the north bank. Another tremor and a low groan. The water underfoot began sloshing sideways. She screamed. Clarence swore. The current tugged at his boots. He leaned forward, teeth clenched, hauling them up the incline. The girl clung to his jacket, her grip desperate. They moved slower than he liked, the stroller bumping like an anchor.
A car horn blared—someone still trying to make it across. Clarence held up his hand, as the annoyed driver shouted something. He shoved the girl toward the grass as the car pushed forward. When the driver saw the bridge was gone, he turned around rapidly, tears squealing. She collapsed, panting. “You okay?” She nodded, eyes wide. “Take Second Street next time,” he muttered, leaving her there with her baby. He went and stared at the river, fast and brown and loud. Clarence pressed his radio. “Burnside bridge is down.” Someone answered, but the transmission was garbled. He clipped the radio to his belt and lit a cigarette with cupped hands. Water streamed off his cap.